


our hearts were little stones

by sassiarty



Category: Cabin Pressure, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-23
Updated: 2012-12-23
Packaged: 2017-11-22 04:21:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/605768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sassiarty/pseuds/sassiarty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s Sherlock who’s on the other side of the door.</p>
<p>John’s first thought is that he’s going crazy. Why else would he be seeing Sherlock right now? But as he stares for too long, slowly, differences start to appear. This man is shorter than Sherlock, his complexion is far worse, and his hair is red. Possibly the biggest difference of all is the huge smile plastered across his face. Even when he was smiling, Sherlock never seemed to radiate so much joy, especially over something as trivial as meeting a new person</p>
            </blockquote>





	our hearts were little stones

**Author's Note:**

  * For [augustbird](https://archiveofourown.org/users/augustbird/gifts).



> Note: This fic is un-beta'd and un-britpicked, so any mistakes (and there's probably a lot of them) are my fault. This is a gift for [ augustbird](http://augustbird.tumblr.com/), for the Sherlock Secret Santa! It's based on her tags on this [post](http://augustbird.tumblr.com/post/35314510516). Happy holidays, and I hope you like your present!

Sherlock's stuff needs to go somewhere. John doesn't want to be the one who has to deal with it, physically can't deal with it at first, but in the end it falls on him to clean out their old flat. Ms. Hudson's hip is acting up, and there's no way he could possibly expect her to carry all those heavy boxes. Mycroft hasn't talked to John since Sherlock's death, and John can't bring himself to call or text the older Holmes brother. He hasn't forgiven Mycroft. Isn't sure he ever can. And other than the three of them, there’s really no one else.

John puts it off for as long as he can, though. Makes excuses to Ms. Hudson. _Work's been so busy lately, my leg's acting up, I'll come clean out the flat laterlaterlater._

He gives excuses to Ms. Hudson for over a month before he finally decides it’s time.

Well, no, it's not 'time' in the mystical magical way that Ella says the word. When she says 'time' she means _give it time_ , it'll stop hurting, you'll be fine. In _time_ you'll forgive, in _time_ you'll heal. Maybe that magic point in his life is coming, but when he decides to clean out 221b it isn't that moment. It’s this moment: he's sitting on the couch, leg aching, telly on, watching something mindless. And all he can think about is what Sherlock would think of it. He’d hate it, obviously. But what exactly would he say? Instead of watching the show, John finds himself searching for the right words, just so that he can play Sherlock for a moment. He may not have set foot in 221b since Sherlock was with him, but it doesn't matter. His best friend's ghost found him somehow anyway. What’s he so afraid of finding in 221b that isn’t already inside his head?

As depressing as that thought is, it’s enough to get him off the couch, and over to the phone. John calls Ms. Hudson to let her know that he’ll be over soon to pick up Sherlock’s stuff. It isn’t much of a warning, but she sounds happy.

xxx

There’s only one moving van company available on such short notice. When John calls, the man on the other ends stutters and then practically trips over himself trying to get the job, swearing to show up _exactly_ at six fifteen and not a moment later and yes of course he’ll help carry the boxes and yes sir you can count on him to get the job done right. John’s only half listening, but when they get to the pricing he’s surprised to hear how cheap it’ll be to take all of Sherlock’s things. Ten pounds an hour is much better than he would’ve expected.

The conversation’s going fine until the man with a van asks where John wants the boxes to go.

He hadn’t thought about that. He’d just focused on getting them out of 221b. After a pause that goes on for just a second too long, he says “Diogenes Club.” Let Mycroft worry about it from there. It’s the least he can do.

John gets to 221b at six. He doesn’t want to be too early. That would mean being alone in 221b for a while. Fifteen minutes is fine. He can handle fifteen minutes in the flat.

As it turns out, he doesn’t even have to spend that much time alone. He’s barely stepped inside of the house when Ms. Hudson swoops towards him.

“John! How are you, dear?”

“Fine. I’m fine,” John says. His hand tremors for a moment, but he shoves it in his pocket and ignores it. They idly chatter for a few minutes, until a knock on the door interrupts them. 

“I’ll get out of your hair,” Ms. Hudson promises, disappearing into her own room. “If you boys need any help cleaning, just give me a call!” John has a feeling she’s giving him a few moments alone to say goodbye to Sherlock’s things. He doesn’t want to need that time, but even still, he takes a long, deep breath before opening the door.

His world stops.

Because it’s Sherlock who’s on the other side of the door.

John’s first thought is that he’s going crazy. Why else would he be seeing Sherlock right now? But as he stares for too long, slowly, differences start to appear. This man is shorter than Sherlock, his complexion is far worse, and his hair is red. Possibly the biggest difference of all is the huge smile plastered across his face. Even when he was smiling, Sherlock never seemed to radiate so much joy, especially over something as trivial as meeting a new person.

“Icarus Removals!” the man chirps. “Are you John Watson?”

John stares. “The boxes are upstairs,” he says, because he really can’t think of anything else to say. The man –Martin Crieff, he remembers the name from the ad in the paper- walks past him into the house. John registers that he’s shorter than he looked on the doorstep. About the same height as John. Sherlock’s…Sherlock was much taller. But John’s seen him dress just right to cover a slouch, creating the impression of an entirely different height. He was a genius that way. Well, that way and just about every other way. 

Unwanted, the thought creeps into his mind- if there’s anyone who could cheat death, it’d be Sherlock. If there’s anyone who could convince everyone, including Mycroft, that they’re dead, it’d be Sherlock. If there’s anyone socially inept enough to think that dressing up and moving boxes is a good way to reveal that they’re alive, it’d be Sherlock. 

Or maybe John’s just lost it.

“Which room are we heading to?” Martin says, writing something down on the clipboard in his hands. He’s the very picture of professional and business, except for the fact that he trips and falls on the stairs on the way up to 221b.

xxx

Later, when they’re in the van on their way to the Diogenes Club, John tries not to stare at Martin. He can’t help but sneak glances at him out of the corner of his eye every now and then. Martin doesn’t seem to notice, eyes fixed on the road, flinching every time another car comes too close to his van.

Sherlock would’ve noticed John staring.

If this is Sherlock, why hasn’t he said anything yet?

xxx

The van breaks down when they’re halfway to the club.

“I am so sorry about this,” Martin says, looking like he’s trying very hard not to cry. “I’ll cut the price in half to make up for the delay.” He paces nervously, looking at his watch every few seconds, before his eyes dart up to John’s face, as if he’s trying to gauge John’s reaction. He also looks like he expects John to snap at him any minute. 

“It’s fine, really,” John assures him. “I don’t have anywhere else to go tonight, and it’s hardly your fault that your van’s having problems.”

“You don’t have to wait for the truck with me,” Martin says hurriedly, despite John’s reassurance. “Call a cab or something, go home. Once he gets here and fixes my van, I’ll make sure that your things get to the Diogenes Club safely.” The words are rushed and mechanic. John’s struck with the sudden observation that this has happened before, and Martin’s used to having to soothe angry customers.

He considers taking Martin up on the offer, and going back home. The van is starting to get freezing in the winter night air, and there’s no working heater to warm them up. But he’s not ready to let Martin out of his sight. If it really is Sherlock and John walks away he’ll never forgive himself. Because it has to be, right? No one could look this similar to his best friend. Even Mycroft doesn’t look as similar to Sherlock as Martin does, and he’s his brother.

“Why don’t we go get coffee?” John says, turning back to Martin. “It’s freezing in here. There’s a place just down the street,” he offers. “We’ll be able to watch your van from the window,” he adds, rubbing his hands together to generate heat.

“You want to get coffee with me?” Martin says, sounding confused. Then, after a beat, he continues. “I mean yes, yes of course, that’s a brilliant idea. Coffee. Just the thing to warm us up.”

Martin doesn’t order any food, just a drink. When John pushes – _it’s dinner time, you must be hungry!_ \- Martin adamantly shakes his head. John can’t tell if it’s a sign that he’s right and he’s with Sherlock, or if Martin really just isn’t hungry. John’s only halfway through his coffee when the pickup truck arrives to fix Martin’s van.

“You know, we didn’t really get to finish our drinks,” John says, while they’re standing out in the cold again. “Maybe we could get another together, some time?” he asks, flashing Martin a smile. It’s been ages since he’s flirted with anyone, and he’s rusty. When Sherlock was around he always found a way to sabotage John’s dates, so eventually John just stopped trying. And since Sherlock, he hasn’t felt like flirting with anyone. If this really is his friend, John’s never going to hear the end of his attempts to pick him up. 

xxx

When he has time to think about it at home, in the quiet of the house, John’s forced to admit that his theory only has circumstantial evidence at best. So Martin looks like Sherlock. That doesn’t mean anything. And he acts nothing like him. Where Sherlock was all poise and intensity, Martin’s messy, impulsive, and stumbles over his words almost as often as he stumbles over his feet. Sherlock’s a good actor, but he’s not that good.

John goes to their second coffee date anyway, and when he sits down across from Martin, coffee in hand, the other man beams at him. John ignores the guilt that fills him at Martin’s innocent happy face. 

xxx

The fourth time they meet, John’s coming from a short day at work, and he gets there early. Just in time to see Martin ordering a hot cup of water. When it’s John’s turn in line he orders a second one, and silently hands it to Martin before sitting down across from him.

“So, ‘Man with a Van’,” John says, taking a sip of his coffee. “Why’d you choose that as a job?”

“I didn’t!” Martin blurts. “Well, I mean I did, but not really. I mean, it’s not my only job. It’s just on the side. I’m a captain. Of an airplane. I’m a pilot,” he finally manages. 

“Really? Sounds exciting,” John says, thinking of his own days spent walking around an empty flat and dodging calls from Harry. “Do you like it?”

“I love it!” Martin says, his eyes sparkling. “I’ve always wanted to be an airplane captain, ever since I was a little boy.”

That’s one of the few things Martin’s said since they started spending time together where he didn’t stutter or mess up his words or get too embarrassed to keep going. For whatever reason, John seems to make him nervous. He keeps agreeing to spend time with him though.

“I’m sorry,” Martin says. “You probably don’t want to talk about this,” he mumbles into his coffee.

“No, I think it’s fantastic that you’ve got your dream job. I’d love to hear more about it,” John says. He likes talking about Martin. It’s a nice way to get away from his own thoughts, and it makes Martin happy, even if he always seems to be in disbelief that John actually wants to hear about him.

Martin tells John everything about his job, from the ridiculous clients they take on, to his horrible first officer (Martin can’t help but smile when he talks about him). When John leaves, he realizes that this was the first time he’d spent time with Martin, without thinking of Sherlock once. He’s not sure how he feels about that.

xxx

John doesn’t tell anyone about Martin, even as they grow closer. Martin may be the furthest thing from Sherlock in personality, but he still looks painfully similar to him. Freud would have a field day with the two of them, and John can only imagine what Ella would have to say about his new friend.

xxx

On the eighth meeting (John still resolutely refers to them as that, because he’s not sure what else to call them) Martin’s quiet, and fidgeting. He’d had to cancel on him last time for a last minute flight, and John finds himself happier than he expected to see the other man. He quietly hands Martin a coffee and sits down. It’s become his tradition now, ever since he noticed that if left to his own devices, Martin will always just ask for hot water instead of buying anything.

“How are you?” John asks. Martin doesn’t answer immediately, frowning down at his drink, and John’s hand shakes slightly. He squeezes it shut and then opens it, trying to relieve the tremor.

Martin stares at his coffee for a moment before answering. “What’s… what you doing?”

“Drinking coffee with you?” John says, although he guesses that’s not what Martin meant.

“No, not that. You keep buying me coffee, we meet once a week, sometimes twice, but I don’t know anything about you. Well, I do know some things,” Martin backtracks, quickly. “You’ve told me that you’re a doctor and you live fairly close, but not much else. And you keep asking me to meet you again but only for coffee. Douglas says these sound like dates, but they’re not right? It’s okay if they’re not. They shouldn’t be, I’m me for God’s sake. Not that I wouldn’t want to go on a date with you! If you were interested! But since you’re not-I-I-“ he’s working himself up, and John puts out a hand to interrupt him, since Martin seems like he’ll keep going all day.

They’re not dating, are they? He’s not even sure how to answer. Even just being friends with Martin is a terrible idea, because every time John walks into the building and sees Martin, he’s reminded of Sherlock, and it _hurts_. Just the other day Martin was wearing a hat, covering his red hair, and his attention was focused on his phone. Texting. John had been so reminded of Sherlock that he’d had to walk back outside to breathe, and focus, and he hadn’t been able to go back inside for nearly fifteen minutes.

But on the other hand, being with Martin is making John happier than he’s been for ages. Martin’s no Sherlock. Their time together is spent making awkward small talk and drinking coffee. John always gets enough sleep, and there are never any dead bodies. But Martin’s sweet and eager to please, and sometimes when he smiles at John just right it doesn’t even hurt.

Sherlock would know how John felt, even if John can’t tell. Sherlock would be able to look at John’s pupils, or his choice in sweaters this week, and he’d be able to deduce exactly how John felt about Martin. But he’s not here.

Finally John shrugs, and tries to convince himself that this is healthy. After all, he likes Martin, and Martin obviously likes him. Ella keeps telling him to put himself out there and meet new people, maybe go on a date or two. So this is exactly what he’s supposed to be doing, right? “I like you Martin. Why don’t we just keep things simple, and see what happens?”

xxx

The first time they kiss, John tries hard not to think of Sherlock. When he opens his eyes again though, and there’s Martin looking back at him, eyes wide and adoring, all he can see is Sherlock. 

He wonders if this would ever have happened between him and Sherlock, if they’d had more time.

He wonders if he’ll ever stop thinking about Sherlock, when he should be thinking about Martin.

xxx

Martin always wants to come over to John’s house, instead of John coming over to his place. He won’t explain, but John has a feeling he knows why. Martin hates spending money, he’s painfully thin, his winter clothes are awful, and no matter how inconvenient he never turns down a job. John doesn’t say anything though. If Martin wanted him to know, he’d tell him. 

It’s a lazy evening at John’s flat. Martin’s over, and they’re trying to cook something, but neither of them are any good at it. Martin’s halfway through an anecdote about Douglas and the cheese tray, and the one time Martin actually managed to win a bet, when the food in the oven starts to burn. At the same time, the doorbell rings. John laughs- of course they’d happen at the same time. “I’ll be right back!” he promises, leaving Martin to deal with the burning food. Probably not a good idea, but he’ll just tell whoever’s at the door that he’s busy, and they’ll just have to come back later. John tugs open the door, a half smile on his face. When the door swings fully open, that smile drops away. 

“Who’s at the door?” Martin calls from the kitchen, unaware that John’s world just stopped again.

“Hello, John,” says Sherlock.


End file.
